Irish Blood, English Sunset
by dance-of-the-grindylows
Summary: A feeble smile was etched upon his face, and he murmured his last words softly:  "The Cup's coming home with the green lads tonight."    A tragedy occurs on the night of the Quidditch World Cup, but not at the Death Eaters' hands. T for violence, not cano


**Title:** Irish Blood, English Sunset  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Chapter #:<strong> 1 of 1  
><strong>Ships:** None  
><strong>Eras:** Hogwarts  
><strong>Genres:** Dark, Action, Angst

**NOTE: I recommend you read this in 3/4 width and with the font size 2 steps bigger than the preset. It looks a lot nicer and much easier to read, I think:)**

_Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I'd be rewriting the epilogue right now._

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><p>"...Absolute corker from Lynch!"<p>

"Yeah, but it was nothing on Krum's Wronski Feint!"

"Alright, I have to give him that – but that's all he's gettin', 'cause the Cup's coming home with the green lads tonight!"

Whoops of joy and laugher followed Seamus' cheer as the proud Irish boy trudged his way back to the campsite, through heavily-trodden mud and long grass. Walking alongside George Weasley, the two boys analysed and made note of the highs and lows of the nail-bitingly close Quidditch World Cup Final between Ireland and Bulgaria; the latter country had caught the all-important Snitch but still lost out, by only ten points. After his nation's victory, it would be an understatement to say that Seamus was ecstatic – his spirits were so high they were soaring over the two teenagers, dancing in the amber sky. Sunset was nearing, but it was doubtless that the boys, and all of the other Ireland supporters staying on the Cup's vast site, would be up well into the night celebrating. Even then, still quite a bit away from the campsites, cheery singing and tooting of horns could be heard.

The pair stopped and glanced back over their shoulders. They had walked quite far ahead of their families and friends, who weren't even in sight. No matter how hard they squinted, no trace of red hair or glitter of green could be spotted over the crest of the hill. Both boys sighed.

"Bet me mam's gabbing again," said Seamus, shaking his head. George chuckled, and the teenagers stood quietly for a while, both turning their attention to observing the glorious setting sun. Ruby and ochre plumes erupted all around them, spattered with streaks of golden-honey; it was astounding to watch.

Then the sky darkened, its colours morphing into a blood red. Looking back, George would view it bitterly as a sign of what was to occur next; a sinister, ironic foreshadow that had struck too late.

"Blimey, Seamus, would you look at—" he began, going to give Seamus a sideways glance, when from the corner of his peripheral vision a flash of scarlet made him spin around—

"_Flipendo_!"

The snarled Knockback Jinx was hurled at George so suddenly it caught him off guard; he cursed as he was sent flying backwards through the air. Landing heavily, his head made an audible _crack_ when it hit a sharp rock. The warmth of oozing blood rushed over him at once, and George leapt to his feet, wand ready to fight back at the attacker.

"_Ventus_!" he yelled, aiming at the Bulgarian supporter who was advancing on an unsuspecting Seamus. A gust of wind streamed from the tip of his wand and headed for the red-robed man, but the adult cast it away with a flick of his own wand. Seamus realised he was in danger. His hand flew for his pocket, but before he could act the Bulgarian was upon him, another hex shooting from his wand. He was knocked to the ground with a gasp as George sprung back up.

"_STUPEFY_!" roared George, but he was sent backwards again as the man bellowed "_IMPEDIMENTA_!" a split-second faster. Lying stop-still on the ground, he could watch but not act; see but not move. Helpless, struggling furiously to no avail, he looked on as the Bulgaria supporter's face flushed crimson whilst he stalked back to Seamus, who was screaming rapidly in his Irish inflection – so quickly that his yells were unintelligible. The attacker's lip curled into an irate snarl and his leg swung back, imminently colliding with Seamus' head. Appearing to have opted for the old-fashioned method without magical assistance, the blows came again and again – and George could do nothing to stop them falling, as the blood began to pour from his friend's body.

Sticky burgundy liquid continued to gush from George's forehead, neck, nose, lips – bruised and grimacing with the twinge it caused, he rolled over to face the hill's peak, praying for somebody, anybody, to crest it and come running to help. His eyes scrutinised the hilltop, but still his family were nowhere to be seen. Then, with a shooting burst of pain, he felt his numb legs start to loosen and regain feeling. As if he was a paralysed man walking for the first time, George staggered tenderly to his feet, wobbling, slightly off-balance. His wand was at the ready and this time he would succeed in forcing the Bulgarian away from his friend. The man in question was still enthralled in his beating of Seamus, nasty, cruel laughter coming from his scowling mouth, heated foreign words rippling out of his lips. George had never seen a man so incensed; upset at losing or not, this man was clearly ill of mind. He could have been English, Irish, French, Spanish, American – he could have been of any nationality, from anywhere, and George understood that his insanity would have surfaced anyway, somehow.

It was just so disastrous that it had to surface _here_, with nobody except an unarmed, unable Seamus at his assailant's thrashing feet—

"_PETRIFICUS TOTALUS_!"

At George's bellow, the attacker crumpled. He too was injured, with gashes and cuts bleeding on his face and exposed arms, but these wounds received no pity from George, who ran immediately to Seamus. He grabbed the boy's shoulders and shook him, slapped his cheeks and hollered into his face. Nothing. No response at all. As a salty tear slid down George's cheek, Seamus' chest juddered briefly and violently; his mouth coughed up a gurgle of cherry blood. A feeble smile was etched upon his face, and he murmured his last words softly:

"The Cup's coming home with the green lads tonight."

And with that, a victim of sporting resentment lay at final peace; taken from the earth, his soul soared as high as the Snitch under a bursting, blood-red sunset.

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><p><em>AN: Just a short, not-so-sweet one-shot written for the **Character Death Challenge** by **BelleD'Opium**. My characters were George and Seamus and my prompt was 'Sunset'. _

_I'm not too sold on this one myself, but I hope that you readers enjoy it - as always, reviews only take a minute and are highly appreciated:] Thank you!_


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